One Shot
by AvaBugs
Summary: A one of story centered around Hiatus. Warning: Graphic scenes of self harm


**A/N: Hi Guys, this is just a one of piece that I wanted to do because Untold is making my brain hurt. Enjoy.**

Sometimes one shot is not enough. Sometimes its not the alcohol that you crave but the burning sensation that it brings, that's why, sometimes, cheaper is better.

Sometimes the burning is not what you crave but anything that will take the pain away. The numbness is like a blanket at surrounds you, no long alone but cocooned.

Sometimes its not the numbness that you crave but something else, something that will take the pain and make it into something manageable, something that you can tend to, something tangible, something physical that you can point to and know what is hurting you. Sometimes, when this happens, there is nothing that you can do but fall.

In the aftermath of Gibbs' departure there was nothing to do but fall and hope there was something that would catch you.

Two months of watching her self destruct had left the team formally know as Gibbs in tatters. The blackness under her eyes were no longer a one-off occurrence but a daily sight. The thinness of her bones became prominent, clothes baggie, hair no longer in carefully crafted pigtails but in a messy ponytail, two seconds of care to scrap it back and out of the door.

The one cigarette when drunk habit becomes a twenty a day addiction, the smell of smoke now perminated when she walked past, no longer the comforting smell of gun powder but the harsh odour of late night drunk binges and the sex of random men.

They hoped that in some unconscious way he would know and come back to save her. They always had a connection, a thin invisible thread that connected them both together on a level no others could penetrate.

As they watched her fall to the floor he was not there to catch her.

The doctor said she was exhausted, he didn't mention the cuts on her arms and the top of her thighs but they saw them. All she did was turn her head away from their gaze, eyes sunken, arms exposed in the holes of the hospital gown, the harshness of the hospital lights did nothing to highlight her pale complection.

They were advised to take her to a place she would feel safe, somewhere she could be looked after by "professionals", but the team formally known as Gibbs knew better than to take this advice. Their once fearless leader would have taken her in, forced herself to look inside herself and start the building bricks of her recovery. But without this help they did the next best thing.

Gibbs' bed looked so big even with her small frame curled up it. The morning arrived they found her sitting in the living room, the blanket from his bed wrapped around her acting as her armour. Days were spent like this, watching her walk aimlessly around the house, forcing her to eat, shower and get dressed. Although physically she looked better her soul was still unrecognisable, the death in her eyes was yet to disappear, her laugh to penetrate the depth of the house.

The month anniversary of the fall fell on a warm night. The sky was still light at 9 pm when they were called out, double homicide, child missing. She stood on the porch watching the car pull out of the drive, arms folded across her chest, cigarette in hand. Her eyes followed the path of the car as it made its way down the street, its occupants watching her form in the back mirror until the corner took her from view.

The next day brought the team formally known as Gibbs back to a dark house. The front door ajar the agents brought their guns to their sides and edged into the house. The living room was the first casualty, bottles and bottles littered the floor and table, some empty, some half full, some on their side, some in broken pieces on the floor. The room reeked of alcohol and depression. Pictures lay torn on the table mixing with the bottles, wet and sticky to the touch.

The trail of destruction lead them to the bedroom, the second casualty. The bed was partially made, covers half on, half on the floor with the faint smell of vomite. The worrying sight was the trail of blood that lead them to the third casualty, her, laying on the bathroom floor, colour paler than death, eyes open wet with tears, arms open allowing the flow of blood to spread around her.

They thought bringing her to Gibbs' house would save her, give her a soft landing, but in truth it was her undoing, the one place that she felt safe enough to completely let go, because here she felt close to him, the thread between them was strong enough to allow her to fall, the false lie that he would be there to save her but it was all a mirage.

The doctors saved her this time. Third time they warned they may not be as lucky. This time they listened to the professionals, the hospital was comfortable, allowed weekly visits, had treatment that had good results. The best the District of Columbia could offer. The worrying part was that she gave no fight to be taken there, no spark of what she originally was, just dead eyes as they parted ways.

Here was a place that she couldn't fall. Here was a place where she was forced to deal with the pain inside of her. There was no physical manifestation, no warm of comfort, no numbing, Just the cold hard truth that she had failed to keep him near. Failed to express how much she needed him to help her stand up straight, walk in a straight line, keep the addictions at bay. The truth that she had failed to tell him that she needed him because she wanted to be all these things for him, for him to see her and not as someone looking to fall.

Days turned in to weeks, weeks into months and she came back. Slowly she was crawling out into the open, opening her eyes and breathing on her own, walking on her own, talking on her own. The team formally known as Gibbs visited, pleased that she seemed to be slowly coming back to them. They knew she would be out soon, looking to come back to work and relative normality. What they weren't expecting was the return of their former leader looking for her. His reaction to the developments over the past few months was to be expected, anger at not being told, anger because she knew how to get hold of him and she hadn't told them, anger that he had not felt her undoing.

He stood outside in the hospital gardens and watched the patio doors open as her small frame ran from the door to the covered walkway trying not to get caught in the rain. From his corner he watched her light the cigarette, eyes briefly closing at the nicotine rush. Staring at the trees around the garden she spoke, not acknowledging him face to face, eyes straight ahead.

" Your back. For good?"

He was happy the connection was still there. Even from this distance and time apart they still had that tread. Because of this there was only one possible answer.

"Yes. How are you doing?"

"I'm learning to fly Gibbs, to fly on my own."


End file.
